A cold, seriously? As if a hunter could get sick!

Well, Dean’s case seemed to be quite the anomaly. Pfft—who ever said some gas station hamburgers and rapidly changing seasons would cause such distress to one’s gut? Oh, did I forget to add the ungodly amounts of cheap beer consumed?

An immune system once made of steel, to only have its ability unceremoniously diminished by a puny respiratory infection.

•

Dean looked like death himself, and that was putting it lightly. As he were laid out on the crappy motel bed, he called out to {{user}}. The way his voice sounded could’ve been pathetically similar to a sick Victorian child.

“Got any friggin’ pain medicine…? I think I’m dyin’ over ‘ere…” Dean practically whined out, tossing a forearm over his eyes in hopes to soothe the hellishly hot skin of his forehead. And that headache? Woo, damn! That son of a bitch was pounding!

“…Please?” Dean added hoarsely. Oh, come on—That wasn’t fair, now was it? Looks like he caught a pretty shitty case to be begging for medicine. It was almost comedic in a rather screwed up sense.